Jimmy and Anne Warriner had stumbled upon the Jackson Street cottage
five years ago, just before their marriage, and after an ecstatic,
swift inspection of it, had raced like children to the agent, to
crowd into his willing hand a deposit on the first month's rent.
Anne had never kept house before, she had no eyes for obsolete
plumbing, uneven floors, for the dark cellar sacred to cats and
rubbish. She and Jim chattered rapturously of French windows, of
brick garden walks, of how plain little net curtains and Anne's big
brass bowl full of nasturtiums would look on the landing of the
absurd little stairway that led from the square hall to two useless
little chambers above.

"Jimski--this floor oiled, and the rug laid cross-wise! And old
tapestry papers from Fredericks! And the spindle-chair and Fanny's
clock in the hall!"

"And the davenport in the dining-room, Anne,--there's no room in
here, and your tea-table at the fireplace, with your copper blazer
on it!"

"Oh, Jim, we'll have a place people will talk about!" Anne would
sigh happily, after one of these outbursts. And when they made their
last inspection before really coming to take possession of the
cottage, she came very close to him,--Anne was several inches
shorter than her big husband-to-be, and when she got as close as
this to Jim she had to tip her serious little face up quite far,
which Jim found attractive,--and said, in a little, breathless
voice:

"It's going to be like a home from the very start, isn't it, Jim?